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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Pain / Problems / Adversity
- Published: 05/25/2015
Cowering at the plate for his third and final try following two flawless strikeouts, waiting on jello knees for the two-out, 0-and-1 delivery, Homer hasn’t ruled out sobbing as a viable alternative to going the distance at the plate.
No matter how sincere his focus, how heartfelt his silent supplications to higher authorities, he regards the pitcher as nothing less than a behemoth out there on the mound for Tendleville High, the upper half of his grisly face shadowed by a flaming orange visor, while Homer (he has to admit it) is but a leprechaun, his slightly roomy cleats sunk down into the ditches that a procession of bigger, better batters have mined for traction.
The left side of Homer's face burns in the sun. His helmet wobbles on his head, partly blocking his vision.
Teammate and second baseman Martin Finkmeyer shuffles a few steps off third, leaning toward home and the tying run--little Finkledinkle, star of the French Club and Chess team, Golden Child of the Educational Testing Service, who can whack the ball silly and even steal. Horton the catcher performs at second, kicking up puffs of diamond dust, screaming inspirational obscenities at Homer. Stroker, right fielder and dh, lounges at first, rooting Homer on, telling him he, too, wants to go home.
He just wants to go home.
The behemoth serves up another, and miraculously, it comes whistling straight at Homer's head. With a sigh and a warm feeling, he politely gives it room, as it plunges, fairy-like, over the plate.
And just like that, like magic, Homer’s 0-and-2.
Just one foul tip, Homer prays, my kingdom for one foul tip, and I don't care if I ever touch base again. Just one stinking foul tip, just to regain a little composure, a little dignity, and give Dinkmeyer--Big Man there on third, doing the tip-toe shuffle toward the plate, peeping, "Bring me home, Home, bring me home"--a minor stroke.
Eye on the ball, Homer thinks, eye on the ball. Don't back away, lay into it with a level swing and follow through.
It’s everything he’s been taught, all straight in his mind. But if his mind itself is bent, there’s little he can do.
Both dugouts and the entire infield are alive with the sound of "Hum batter." The behemoth on the mound shakes his head. Homer ponders the gesture. Is he shaking it to call off the catcher's signals? Or is he shaking it at the batter's inability to connect, at the way that darling little leprechaun trembles at the plate like a true member of the high school forensics team?
He serves up another. The world stops. It’s just a little hardball, Homer reasons, no bigger than a nectarine, sizzling toward him with the meaning of life, a white blur like the whole world, and all he has with which to combat it is a little stick that, nonetheless, feels like a redwood in his hands.
Then the white blur is all in his face, and he whirls the bat in mad fashion as the ball whistles cleanly past his head and thwops into the catcher's pillowy mitt and the umpire bellows, "Theeurrreee! Batter's out!" like he’s proud or something.
And the trailing wind whistles through Homer's helmet.
Suddenly, the road goes neither way. Homer’s a fixture in the batter's box, up to his knees in imaginary cement. Step right up, folks, and carve your initials here, is about the size of it.
Yes sir, the funny thing about it all is, if you could score points for preliminary gut feelings, earn credits for I could've told you so's, Homer would be rounding the figurative bases at this very moment, ambling proudly, grinning winningly, his hat tipped to the throngs of cheerers standing along the baseline fences.
On the outside, from behind the backstop fence, he might resemble a motionless, mortified leprechaun in the midst of reveling Tendleville players and three dejected, former Smoky River base runners returning to the dugout, helmets humbly in hands; but in the heart of the leprechaun, there happens to be a big-time football player.
Got that everybody?
A future pro running back!
Homer and Behemoth(Don Wagberg)
Cowering at the plate for his third and final try following two flawless strikeouts, waiting on jello knees for the two-out, 0-and-1 delivery, Homer hasn’t ruled out sobbing as a viable alternative to going the distance at the plate.
No matter how sincere his focus, how heartfelt his silent supplications to higher authorities, he regards the pitcher as nothing less than a behemoth out there on the mound for Tendleville High, the upper half of his grisly face shadowed by a flaming orange visor, while Homer (he has to admit it) is but a leprechaun, his slightly roomy cleats sunk down into the ditches that a procession of bigger, better batters have mined for traction.
The left side of Homer's face burns in the sun. His helmet wobbles on his head, partly blocking his vision.
Teammate and second baseman Martin Finkmeyer shuffles a few steps off third, leaning toward home and the tying run--little Finkledinkle, star of the French Club and Chess team, Golden Child of the Educational Testing Service, who can whack the ball silly and even steal. Horton the catcher performs at second, kicking up puffs of diamond dust, screaming inspirational obscenities at Homer. Stroker, right fielder and dh, lounges at first, rooting Homer on, telling him he, too, wants to go home.
He just wants to go home.
The behemoth serves up another, and miraculously, it comes whistling straight at Homer's head. With a sigh and a warm feeling, he politely gives it room, as it plunges, fairy-like, over the plate.
And just like that, like magic, Homer’s 0-and-2.
Just one foul tip, Homer prays, my kingdom for one foul tip, and I don't care if I ever touch base again. Just one stinking foul tip, just to regain a little composure, a little dignity, and give Dinkmeyer--Big Man there on third, doing the tip-toe shuffle toward the plate, peeping, "Bring me home, Home, bring me home"--a minor stroke.
Eye on the ball, Homer thinks, eye on the ball. Don't back away, lay into it with a level swing and follow through.
It’s everything he’s been taught, all straight in his mind. But if his mind itself is bent, there’s little he can do.
Both dugouts and the entire infield are alive with the sound of "Hum batter." The behemoth on the mound shakes his head. Homer ponders the gesture. Is he shaking it to call off the catcher's signals? Or is he shaking it at the batter's inability to connect, at the way that darling little leprechaun trembles at the plate like a true member of the high school forensics team?
He serves up another. The world stops. It’s just a little hardball, Homer reasons, no bigger than a nectarine, sizzling toward him with the meaning of life, a white blur like the whole world, and all he has with which to combat it is a little stick that, nonetheless, feels like a redwood in his hands.
Then the white blur is all in his face, and he whirls the bat in mad fashion as the ball whistles cleanly past his head and thwops into the catcher's pillowy mitt and the umpire bellows, "Theeurrreee! Batter's out!" like he’s proud or something.
And the trailing wind whistles through Homer's helmet.
Suddenly, the road goes neither way. Homer’s a fixture in the batter's box, up to his knees in imaginary cement. Step right up, folks, and carve your initials here, is about the size of it.
Yes sir, the funny thing about it all is, if you could score points for preliminary gut feelings, earn credits for I could've told you so's, Homer would be rounding the figurative bases at this very moment, ambling proudly, grinning winningly, his hat tipped to the throngs of cheerers standing along the baseline fences.
On the outside, from behind the backstop fence, he might resemble a motionless, mortified leprechaun in the midst of reveling Tendleville players and three dejected, former Smoky River base runners returning to the dugout, helmets humbly in hands; but in the heart of the leprechaun, there happens to be a big-time football player.
Got that everybody?
A future pro running back!
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